


I'm Not Your Stepping Stone

by Emerald Embers (emeraldembers)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, Drugs, M/M, Slash, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-07
Updated: 2010-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-10 23:41:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emeraldembers/pseuds/Emerald%20Embers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Preventing Castiel's death wasn't the same thing as saving him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not Your Stepping Stone

Castiel didn't entirely know what was going on anymore. It could have been the absinthe. It could have been the amphetamines. It could have been the blood loss.

Or maybe he'd finally snapped.

Castiel remembered his ribs breaking, a flash of white, and the warmth of someone else's arms around him, a human heart beating too fast.

The pain had stopped, replaced by white again, and he'd passed out. Consciousness was hard to maintain once you knew the other options. Sleep was more alluring than any other drug he'd allowed himself.

"What are you doing here?"

.

Castiel woke up and looked around, letting his too-human eyes adjust to the light. The room he'd woken in was as disorienting as the loss of time, and the knowledge that he had been moved. He touched his fingers to his chest, not wanting to sit up until he knew his wounds had healed.

Healing took far more energy than destruction required, and Castiel knew of only one creature left on Earth with the strength to do it. He didn't know why he had been spared. There was little difference between himself and any other human.

Castiel climbed off the hospital bed and hated himself for picking up enough human habits that he found the room disturbing; it was sterile and bright, his bed the only feature in a room large enough for six more.

He didn't want to leave for fear of finding worse but he knew who had brought him here. More than that, he needed to find out, needed to know what had happened to Dean.

He needed to know if his sacrifice, or Risa's, was worthwhile.

.

Leaving the room only rendered the situation even more dreamlike; for all that his room had been perfect, the remainder of the building was anything but. He walked through the corridors, careful not to brush against the walls out of concern for finding a loose nail or broken glass, stopping only to pick up an abandoned newspaper.

August 2nd 2012. Barely two years ago; the ruin achieved in so short a time was impressive in its own way.

It seemed foolish to put the newspaper back where he'd found it amongst bricks and dust, but the hospital's state was funereal, a monument to a fallen civilisation, and keeping everything in its right place bordered on ritualistic.

.

Castiel once rejected the idea of suspicion, believed it to be the start of all doubts and assumptions, but living a mortal life had cultivated a need for it - suspicions were a guard against injury.

They were also a cause of anxiety, and he hesitated at the exit when the door initially jammed, not wishing to see for certain what lay outside.

.

The grounds were as familiar as he'd thought, but threw any sense of time wholly out of balance. The building had been decrepit when they first came across it, but now it was outright ruined, ivy covering near every inch of the outside walls, weeds fighting their way through the concrete floor.

He'd fallen here. Even if his blood no longer marked the spot where it had happened, he recognised it in an instant. The others had been moved, but not far. He knelt, touching his fingers to the soil and broken concrete.

Dean was missing, and Castiel's stomach twisted at the sudden gale in what had been still air. He would have recognised the person standing there if he'd lost all physical senses, would have known him in a thousand-strong crowd.

Lucifer smelled of fresh cut grass and Sam Winchester.

"Missed a bit," Lucifer said, closing the space between them and kneeling to touch his fingers to Castiel's chest. Even through the sudden pain and the realisation of what Lucifer was doing, of the Enochian writing healed from his ribs, he didn't fear Lucifer. Lucifer was the end, and no one truly feared the end, only how it found them.

"What happened to Dean?" Castiel asked, already knowing the answer by virtue of the man before him. Dean had failed. Whether he ran or fell didn't matter; he had failed.

"He used you as bait. Why should you care?"

Castiel felt the blood drain from his extremities, fingers going numb. "I would have volunteered if he'd asked," he replied. "Where is he?"

Lucifer shrugged. "Dead. I thought you knew."

"Where is he _now_," Castiel said, and Lucifer met his glare with a curious expression.

"Gone," Lucifer replied. "I unmade him. I wasn't about to send him somewhere Michael could reach."

Castiel nodded, relieved to at least be kneeling so he wouldn't have to stumble on numbed and clumsy feet. "Send me with him."

"Don't be so melodramatic," Lucifer cautioned. "You're Castiel, right?" Castiel didn't answer. He was scarcely able to breathe and remained kneeling as Lucifer stood. "I've never liked hospitals," he said, walking over to the door and pressing his hands to the surface, mould and moss spreading under his touch, ivy swelling from between his feet to join the greenery already rupturing the walls, the sounds of stone cracking and glass shattering getting louder as the damage spread. "Never had to use one before. You were in quite a state when I found you."

"Why did you heal me?" Castiel asked, the wave of panic from asking about Dean having subsided for now, though he knew full well it would return later.

The building collapsed in on itself and Lucifer waited a moment for the rubble to settle before turning back to Castiel, eyebrows raised. "You stayed when even Gabriel fled. There must be a reason why."

"I stayed for the Winchesters," Castiel said, knowing that one was silent, buried beneath Lucifer's fire, and the other was dead.

Lucifer looked disappointed, even bored. He walked across the rubble and hovered over the gaping holes in the floor where the foundations of the building lay bare.

"Where are you going?"

"Wherever I wish," Lucifer replied, disappearing with a clap of displaced air.

Lucifer hadn't been made with wings. He hadn't needed them.

.

The trucks seemed little more than decoration when Castiel caught up to them, and it was unsurprising to find that they refused to start. It felt about right that their radios and cell phones followed suit, that his amphetamines were gone, and the only thing his truck could offer was a space to sleep - not even a particularly safe one.

It didn't matter. He was tired and hungry and alone, and he could only fix one of the three for now. Even if it was cold, just being sheltered was enough to give a sense of warmth. He wondered if he should mourn Dean, wondered why all he could draw from his mind when he thought of Dean was a blank and a sense of panic.

Lucifer had brought him back, and didn't seem entirely certain why. God was absent or dead. Dean was gone.

At least it was over; Dean unmade was the closest he would ever come to knowing peace. Heaven would have used him, Hell would have destroyed him. Even so, Castiel still found himself frightened by the realisation he couldn't think past the blanks, frightened by the idea that Dean's unmaking might affect his own memory.

Objectively speaking there was no real reason to be scared by the idea of losing Dean's memory, but he couldn't sleep for it, despite all logic. Castiel sat up and rifled through the truck until he found Risa's diary, the tiny scrap of a pencil trapped by elastic at its side, and flicked to the first empty page.

_Dean Winchester. Father, John Winchester. Mother, Mary Campbell. Brother, Sam. Half-brother, Adam. Righteous man. Michael's vessel. Slew Azazel, the scapegoat. Leader of Camp Chitaqua. Green eyes._

He tucked the pencil back into place and slipped both pencil and diary into his jeans' pocket before curling up again on the back seat, intending to sleep. The attempt went better the second time.

.

Castiel woke to silence, kept his own quiet as he shifted, careful not to attract attention. There should have been birdsong at minimum, and he froze in place on seeing the croat staring at him through the side window.

It should have been screaming for others to join it, or trying to smash the window, forcing its way in. The staring set him shivering, even as he pulled out the handgun from under the driver's seat.

It stayed still, let him aim the gun and pull the trigger.

.

Castiel climbed out of the truck and kicked over the corpse before looking to see if the shot had attracted any attention. Not yet, it appeared, but he knew well enough to grab his bags and start moving fast, to stick to the forest's edge so he could run straight on the road if he had to, or head for cover in the trees. Moreover, the hunger of being without food since setting out on their suicide mission was starting to take hold and with luck he might sniff out berries or mushrooms that had yet to be foraged, so long as he kept close enough to the woods.

He walked until his feet ached, muscles unused to this much exercise protesting, kept going because he knew he could not strain himself to the point of injury; he paused only once he was in sight of a gas station. It didn't carry any smell, but tins and cans could dull his senses, make picking them out harder.

He closed his eyes and for a moment the sun almost didn't feel like an insult. It felt warm, and comforting, and Castiel laughed at it.

He had spent four years giving up everything, turning into a pissing, shitting human as the last support for a man meant to save the world, and that man had failed.

It was a melodrama any twentieth century human would have mocked, and it was his life. Even though his stomach was empty, it still threatened to throw up.

He shook his head and walked the last few metres to the gas station, opened the doors, careful not to let the smashed glass of the windows crunch too loudly beneath his feet. The shelves had largely been emptied but it seemed even foragers liked to think of themselves as having taste, and Castiel found himself loading up his bags with tinned ham and spam, the irony of an angel eating meat off a cloven-hoofed animal not escaping his notice.

The batteries and gas had all been taken long ago, and the thought of contacting the camp only gained a further sense of urgency the more impractical it became. With Gabriel's markings healed he couldn't return; his presence would be like a signal flare to Lucifer, and even if Risa and Dean's deaths had numbed him, he still had no inclination to put others in danger through his own stupidity.

He took out Risa's diary and reread his own notes, smirked, and added, _Dean Winchester - suicidal asshole_ before packing up to keep moving. He could take care of his hunger once he had time enough and safety enough to camp; besides, hunger and exhaustion could make the vilest of meat edible.

.

Lucifer came to him in his dreams. They still stood in a forest, but not any Castiel had seen - and certainly not in America.

Lucifer smiled. "Exactly," he said, petting the creatures around him, their coats thick and bright and beautiful. The wolves seemed to recognise him as their master, and paid no attention to Castiel.

"Where are we?" Castiel asked, watching the wolves fade away into the forest as if they had always been free to roam there, as if their safety in the woods had never been compromised.

"Scotland," Lucifer said. "I brought them back where they belonged."

Castiel felt the scenery change, the trees stripping bare as snow fell around them, flashes of eyes in the snow from creatures that nearly blended in otherwise.

"I'm restoring our father's work," Lucifer said.

Castiel felt the dream slip as he returned to a deep sleep, and wondered at the peace in Lucifer's expression.

.

The Croatoan virus had almost accomplished its task of wiping humankind from the planet, but there were still those who had hope. That he should see several of the hopeful as he walked was no surprise, stopped in their tracks by croats or disease, though the absence of infected was increasingly unsettling. Croats weren't subtle, and he prayed blindly that his few remaining powers hadn't left him, prayed he could still hear and smell them before they had a chance to see or attack him. He had recognised the suicide mission Dean led them on for what it was before they were surrounded, knew Dean needed the distraction. Hearing Dean's past self argue for their safety had been like a kiss goodbye, almost made the sacrifice feel worthwhile.

It was hard to feel quite so noble with a ripped open stomach and three broken ribs, watching his vessel bleed out while the others collapsed one by one. Risa had been a mess, died fighting with the wounds to show for it. Few of them fared any better.

.

He smelled smoke long before he smelled the fire's creator, and was relieved to realise no taint was carried on the wind. Whistling or singing would have been the sensible thing to do, something to make it clear he wasn't a croat, but he had no fear of bullets. The world had made it quite obvious it had no intention of letting him die that easily.

"Hey!" came the shout from behind him, accompanied by the smell of gunpowder and oil. Castiel stood still. "You infected? Try and kill me if the answer's yes."

Castiel snorted despite himself, and turned around to face the lone gunslinger. "Hey yourself."

What had been a stern expression burst into a grin. "Good to see someone else with their skull intact. What're you doing round here?"

Castiel shrugged. "Waiting."

"For death or dead people? Not much else around, I can tell ya. Name's Betty."

"Castiel."

Betty whistled before lowering her gun and walking back towards the camp she had set up. "And I thought my mom was mean. You headed anywhere in particular, Castiel?"

Castiel obeyed her gesture for him to sit down by the fire. "Chitaqua." It was an easy lie, given naming any of the closer camps risked her deciding to walk with him.

"Then you know you're headed in the wrong direction?"

Castiel blinked. "How do you know?"

He tried not to look overly interested when Betty opened up her suitcase and pulled out a radio, tucked in amongst clothing and a few plastic packages. "It's a heavy son of a bitch but it's never given me any trouble."

It was a long shot, but worth taking a chance. "Can I borrow it?"

Betty laughed. "Sure, if you've got a map and food you don't mind trading."

Castiel shed his rucksack and rifled through the pockets, pulling out a battered road map and a few tins of spam, and handed them over. Betty raised an eyebrow.

"Where'd you say you was from?"

"It's a long story," Castiel said.

Betty shrugged and passed the radio to him, not taking her eyes off his. Castiel wondered if part of her could sense he wasn't human, even though her sight told her otherwise. "Shouldn't be needing it anymore anyway. You ever get to Chitaqua, you radio through to camp Trejo, see if we both got home safely. Frequency's already tuned in."

Castiel smiled widely. He was a better liar these days, when he wanted to be. "Sure."

.

Castiel kept watch as Betty slept and waved her off in the morning, took a few moments to familiarise himself with the radio controls before turning it on and tuning it in, nerves almost stinging with anxiety when a response finally came through. "This is Chitaqua, what did you say?"

"It's Castiel. Is Chuck there?" There were crackled whispers and fumbling.

"Cas? Oh my God. Oh my God, it's good to - how have you -" Chuck was excitable and rambling and Castiel felt his throat tightening up.

"They're dead," Castiel said. "Dean didn't make it. I can't come back because Lucifer's following me. I just - I had to tell you. Someone."

Chuck was quiet for a moment, said, "Okay," and Castiel held the receiver, knew Chuck was still there at the end of the line, searching for something to say. "Cas, I'm sorry -"

"It wasn't your fault," Castiel said, talking over Chuck's apology, but it didn't serve as an interruption.

"- know you loved him, I could see back when - Cas, I'm so, so sorry, I should've said something -"

Castiel, wishing he were wearing more layers than a shirt and jacket, poked the embers of the fire. Chuck rarely mentioned his days as a prophet, but when he did it had a way of making people feel naked, exposed. "Dean and I, we weren't - that was a bad month. It was a mistake."

"He loved you too, Cas."

Castiel's breath came as a sob and he choked it down, hastily, forcing himself to numbness.

"Cas?"

"Yes, Chuck. You should have said something." Castiel couldn't think past the memory of Dean's fingers stroking through his hair after sex. They never had much to say to each other after Sam said yes, Dean having always struggled with words when he wasn't being a smartass or flirt even before Sam left. "Thank you, Chuck," Castiel said, running on autopilot, not processing Chuck's words, unable to try or pretend to. "Stay safe. I'll be in touch."

"Cas, wait -"

Castiel remembered Dean looking down at him during one of the earliest orgies, remembered Dean dragging him away from the girls and fucking him up against the wall, not speaking once.

He turned off the radio and remembered Dean's face when he had begged Dean on his knees to shoot him.

He folded his arms around his legs, hugging them to his stomach, cried open mouthed and loud, wet snorts and keening, not caring in the slightest if croats might hear, bending almost double to hide his head as the ache in it blossomed into a migraine.

Dean had loved him back, and he'd never noticed.

.

He shouldn't have been surprised when Lucifer sat down at his side, no clap of thunder heralding his arrival this time. He wondered how long Lucifer had followed him, and didn't lift his head to look for evidence or ask. He wondered if it was another dream.

"Sulking won't accomplish anything."

"You killed him."

"Dean killed himself years ago," Lucifer said. "I'm just tidying up."

Castiel knew it was meant as a tease, knew he had gained a reputation for cleaning the mess left behind by the Winchesters before he'd lost his powers and become this. "Why did you spare me?"

"You're the only other angel left," Lucifer stretched out, too carefully casual in his actions. He seemed to be waiting for something. Castiel met his eyes. "I snapped Dean's neck," Lucifer said, his tone neutral. "You haven't asked how I killed him. I wasn't cruel."

It felt like a slap, but strangely relieving. "Good," Castiel said, watching Lucifer disappear. Good was true. Thanks would not have been.

.

Waking was unpleasant, canned meat an unsettling breakfast and the knowledge that Lucifer was watching him scarcely a comfort. He packed away the radio, thankful for the small mercy that there had been no rain overnight to cause damage, annoyed with himself for falling asleep without putting away the one possession he had that could be damaged by exposure. Throughout it all, there was still a sense of something else missing, something he needed to do, and he wished he had a joint or at least a drink, something to distract him. He'd felt similarly before, not long after his siblings left for Heaven - a sudden need for orders, for purpose. He had been created to obey, not to think, and the removal of all command was jarring.

Leaning on his side meant feeling something digging into it, and he blinked before reaching into his jeans' pocket and pulling out Risa's diary.

He knew what he had written but had yet to read her notes, the spidery, tall handwriting spilling out across the pages she had filled in. He wondered if she had gone to Heaven or Hell, if she would resent his reading her thoughts. He doubted it mattered.

Risa was no sentimentalist; the majority of her entries were facts and figures with the occasional expletive thrown in - one for January when a condom split, another in February when her period came - but the small joys in amidst all this disaster were so human it was uncomfortable to read, especially when it came to the night before her final stand. Her words about Dean were less than kind. Castiel could sympathise.

Even so, it felt wrong to leave both their entries in Risa's diary as reflections on Dean's failings, and Castiel wrote about Dean's past self turning up, a reminder that when he fell, he fell for a reason. That the Winchesters were worth dying for, once.

He slipped the diary back into his pocket and gathered his bags, winced at the strain on his muscles, and began to walk once more.

.

For all that Dean had called him useless, that he had called himself useless, Castiel had picked up more than one useful trait while observing humanity. He knew what the average human body could and could not eat, could identify any fruit or vegetable placed in front of him and detail its natural harvesting cycle. He could knit, sew, weave and spin, could tan leather, could brew over a thousand different beers and wines and spirits. The uselessness did not stem from a lack of knowledge, simply a lack of materials.

Few materials were needed to lure most animals into a position where he could capture or kill them; Castiel could shoot well enough, but an old-fashioned catch meant easier clean-up.

The balance of wildlife had shifted over the past few years as pets became wild things, animals that nature would never have selected surviving by virtue of their sheer numbers, and Castiel wondered briefly how long the white but not albino rabbit in his hands had lived outside a cage before he snapped its neck. He had no need to fear illness from a meat-heavy diet, and the remaining tins in his bags were better saved for bargaining or for times when fresh food was unavailable.

Despite the breeding speed of rabbits and the fact he could smell others on the wind, Castiel could only catch the one. The rest seemed to be in hiding and he had no intention of waiting for them to settle. He looked instead for mushrooms and berries, which were harder to detect by smell but recognisable nonetheless. The real irritation was a burnt scent that wouldn't quite leave, almost as if he'd singed the hair on his upper lip.

.

When he finally smelled fire it was a relief at first, but the burnt scent still didn't feel right, not until he approached the fire and recognised the creature easily before it had any sense of who he was.

"Holy crap!" said the stranger, looking up at him with stolen brown eyes. Few humans would ever detect the blackness behind them. "Holy crap, hi! Uh, hi - name's Henry, how are you - you from Trejo?"

He was a good actor. Castiel fought his instinct to spit, shook his head and lowered his bags, slow and tense.

"Guess you're headed there, right? Only a couple of hours from here, isn't it?"

"I hear Chitaqua's safer," Castiel replied, keeping his gaze level, trying to judge the situation. He couldn't let this thing get to Trejo; the demonic elements of the Croatoan virus had only partially prepared people for attack and Castiel wasn't prepared to take risks. Chitaqua had been built by hunters, but he couldn't be certain of any other surviving camps.

"If you call trekking for days through croat-infested country safe, sure," Henry said, the act slipping for a second in his voice, something too self-assured for the person he was pretending to be. The slip was enough to entice his own nature to slip through, the demon's true face sneering as Castiel's eyes shimmered over in gold.

Castiel knew the challenge for what it was when Henry stared, checking his balance with his feet as the demon stood up. "Why Trejo?"

"Man's got a right to live," Henry said, grinning too wide. "Any port in a storm, you know?"

"You've already had your chance," Castiel said. "Leave for the pit now, and I won't hurt you."

Henry laughed, the smile disappearing. "Have you _seen_ Hell since Lilith died? Alastair's gone, Azazel's gone, Lucifer walks the Earth - the new management's a fucking mess, and I'm not going back."

Castiel curled his hands into fists, relaxed his stance while he still could. "I have no qualms about sending you down myself."

"I'd like to see you try."

Henry threw the first punch as Castiel had expected, easily blocked, opening up a chance to jab the demon sharply in the ribs though he needed to find a way of getting behind him to reach a point where he could use his strength to full effect. He had aimed too low, too far to the side - the right blow to the chest or stomach would have meant a chance to side-step and the missed opportunity was an annoyance, the annoyance a weakness.

No black-souled demon could battle an angel on strength alone and Henry tackled Castiel with all his weight, and knocked him to the floor, Castiel's left arm falling into the fire and Henry pinning it there.

"Picture this every hour of every day for the rest of your life," spat Henry, forcing Castiel's arm deeper into the flames, disrupting the ash so his skin stuck to red-hot embers and he couldn't scream for the pain of it.

Arms and legs failed under the distraction of agony and this close to a fire he knew it was dangerous, knew it was going to hurt, but the dead weights at his back existed in more than one plane and if he could not trust his body in this one, he could in the other. If their use could save him, it was worth the risk.

Castiel slipped into the world between and let his wings manifest, used their leverage to let him roll away from the flames to pin the writhing ash and smoke creature beneath him before returning to his vessel in full. Instinct had him pressing his hand to the demon's forehead, his grace itching to burn, to do its duty, feeling brighter than it had in years.

Henry laughed and Castiel slipped his other hand around the demon's neck and pulled, fighting the lancing pain in his arm to end the fight.

Even a demon couldn't use a body with its head torn off, and Castiel watched the black smoke of it fall back to the ground, back to Hell where it belonged.

He threw the head onto the fire and slung his bags loosely over his right shoulder, took only a couple of steps before the choking smell of burned hair and the agony of his arm set him to collapsing.

.

He dreamed of water, leaned over the dock he was lying on to immerse his arm before finding his neck seized and a weight on his back. "This is what you do with your gift? After all I did to heal you and set you on the right path?"

"I have nowhere to go -"

"Chitaqua, Castiel!" Lucifer snapped. "You think I don't know?"

"Don't kill them," Castiel said, resigned, knowing better than to hope.

"I haven't yet, but I can't keep them around forever. Not if they'll multiply. I won't allow that."

Castiel grimaced, hating himself for what he was about to suggest, for being too selfish to accept the alternative. "You could make them barren."

"Inefficient, but ruthless," Lucifer sounded confused more than anything. "Would it make you happy?"

"Don't pretend you care," Castiel said.

"I saved you, didn't I?"

"I didn't ask to be saved!" He snapped before the weight on his back shifted and he was forced to roll over, Lucifer straddling his stomach, and he fell silent at the sight of Lucifer's true form. He had left his vessel behind for their dream.

"You shouldn't have to ask," Lucifer said before seizing Castiel's arm and healing it, flesh blistering and crisping and tightening before returning to a newborn state, baby pink and oversensitive.

Lucifer moved away and turned his back to the water, drawing Castiel's attention to the towers around them as they started crumbling into the ground they had previously marred. There was no sound; Lucifer had prevented the destruction's noise from entering the dream.

Castiel severely doubted the collapse was entirely fictional. "You're showing off."

Lucifer glared over his shoulder and raised a hand; Castiel understood perfectly what would happen if he clicked his fingers. Lucifer knew where he slept, had strength enough to destroy him even with miles between them.

Castiel spread his arms wide, waited. "Go ahead."

"I'm not the worst thing that could have happened," Lucifer said, lowering his hand, fingernails like glass over gold. "They've already chosen where they'll go after death. I'm not making that choice for them."

He returned his attention to the city for a while, the awkward silence between them only growing as the houses and shops and other, lesser buildings fell back against the debris forming the rest of the city.

"What happened between you and Dean?" Lucifer asked at length, careful to feign disinterest.

"Did you feel Gabriel leave?" Any angel, however fallen, should have felt it. Even if they hadn't had Gabriel approach them, marking any angel 'suicidal' enough to stay behind with Enochian to hide their grace from Lucifer, Raphael's joy at finding his brother alive and subsequent offering of amnesty had been heard across the globe.

"Of course."

"Dean asked why I didn't leave with the others. I told him if I couldn't have God, I could at least have him. He was drunk and kissed me. I was drunk and fucked him."

Lucifer frowned before turning back to him briefly. "How many at the camp had you?"

Castiel shrugged. "I'm free from disease and infertile. They enjoyed it."

"They enjoyed it. Why did you let them?"

He stroked the healed skin of his arm. "I couldn't hear my brothers and sisters after they left with Gabriel. It was the next best thing."

"But you heard me."

"You're the devil," Castiel said. "It didn't matter that your voice was beautiful. I was lonely."

Lucifer quietened for a moment and seemed to consider Castiel's point, if not to concede it. "Were you and Dean close?"

"I had no one else. But no, Dean never forgave me for shooting Bobby." Castiel shrugged again, the city around them almost levelled. "Of course, Bobby never took to me the way he did Sam and Dean. I think Dean thought I wanted him gone."

"Did you?"

Castiel thought of the man, bitter for the loss of his legs, yet more bitter for Castiel's inability to heal him. Remembered Bobby's reaction when the rumours about Dean and him were still only rumours. Remembered him saving Becky's life. The good should have outweighed the bad. "Yes."

Lucifer turned to face him fully. "He would have died someday. He was mortal."

"I don't feel guilt for putting Bobby down," Castiel replied, correcting any assumption _that_ could be a cause for regret. "Dean hated me because I wouldn't pretend to."

Lucifer' eyes softened. "We're more alike than I thought."

.

Castiel woke to find his arm healed, beard shaved, and bags laid out neatly by his side.

.

The road back to Chitaqua was a strange thing, seeming shorter one day when thinking of Chuck and finally getting to drink to oblivion, longer another when thinking of what he now represented, the last survivor of a failed attempt to kill Lucifer. Regardless, the physical strains of the journey were easier, his bags lighter as they emptied of stored food and his arms feeling stronger simply because they were healthy; Castiel almost wondered if Lucifer had healed more than his wounds.

Uriel had warned him long ago about the addictive nature of flesh, how easy it was to forget the order of things, that this skin was merely borrowed. That warning had quickly been forgotten in the company of humans, who placed so much emphasis on appearance, safety, personal space - and by the time he woke from death at Raphael's hands, found Jimmy absent and his vessel inherited rather than borrowed on account, he had feared for the flesh as if it were his own.

Fear came and went in cycles, however, organic in its growth and change, and when hope began to die as Sam said yes and God remained silent, it was only natural he should begin to crave injury, crave a permanent death as many of the other survivors of the apocalypse did. He knew Leah only opened her shirt at the orgies instead of taking it off to hide the scars up and down her arms, knew Bernard thought the lines around his ankles unnoticed. If Castiel's skin didn't heal so perfectly after injury, even if the recovery period took a little longer every time, he might have followed suit.

Instead, he had fed himself poisons - alcohol, tobacco, weed, worse. Dean had been the one who did not so much suggest as demand that Castiel turn to them for comfort, had refused Castiel mercy when Castiel knelt before him and took his gun into his mouth.

Castiel had often wondered why he hadn't pulled the trigger himself, why his hypocrisy seemed to know no limits.

He often wondered why he still fought.

.

He felt the crowd begin to gather around him long before he saw them, smelled the taint and knew the fearful silence where there should have been birdsong for what it was.

They closed in and closed in but did not run, did not touch, seeming drawn towards him but keeping their distance nonetheless, following him as if they knew where he would lead. Under the cover of forest the experience was unsettling enough; stepping out into the open, forest cutting away to fields left to fallow, meant seeing the true number of his stalkers.

He hadn't seen anything like it since he first entered Hell all those years ago, the crowd surrounding him angry, violent, and absolutely terrified of him. In Hell that had been the fresh souls and youngest demons, those not yet broken enough to choose permanent death at the hands of an angel over another minute in Hell - later, the suicidal souls around him and his comrades had been more of a nuisance than those who fought - here it was the infected.

That idle wondering if Lucifer had done more than heal him was quickly turning into a suspicion, and he reached for his gun, wondered what intelligence still remained in the croats.

Some, it seemed, though not much; none tried to disarm him when he fired the first shot, felled what had been a young woman, but they began to scatter. Six more died before his clip ran empty, but at least he knew he had weeded out some of the healthiest - croats still ran on human muscles and a creature that looked young, well fed and muscular was often a greater threat than others.

Chances were they would not be back for some time yet but Castiel reloaded the gun anyway, knowing better than to take safety for granted under any circumstances.

It proved to be a wise decision; the croats had not scattered far, and Castiel found himself picking off another five before the habit of sleep started to catch up with him, and tempting as it was to make camp then and there he knew better than to sleep in the open when croats were around. The nearest town was another hour's walk away, but at least sleeping in a locked room would mean no surprise attacks.

.

Two more dead croats and five miles later Castiel tucked his bags under a bathroom sink, spread a blanket over the dead insects and dust lining the bathtub, and locked the door before kicking off his shoes and letting himself curl up in the tub. The bedrooms might have duvets, but they didn't have locks or a shortage of space. A locked door and narrow room meant no one could sneak up on him and gave the ability to pick off targets one by one should any attacker burst in; the knowledge he wouldn't wake up surrounded was a finer source of sleep than any mattress.

.

Castiel opened his eyes to grey skies above him and warm soil at his back, knew he was in a dream but looking at something real the moment he sat up.

Centralia had been largely abandoned long before the Croatoan virus hit, had fallen prey to worse than croats the moment the apocalypse started. The spirits trapped here were furious things, ideal target practise for hunters in training so long as they didn't get caught, killed, and added to the army of ghosts crawling over its otherwise innocuous-looking surface.

Lucifer was capable of subtlety when he wished, but disregarded it entirely on this occasion; the town collapsed in on itself, plumes of flame and ash billowing up into the sky, and Castiel knew full well the destruction ought to be a horrific demonstration of Lucifer's powers, but it had been a long day and long days demanded contemplation, the fires bringing an altogether different consideration to mind.

Castiel had already thought about Hell while awake, mostly drawing idle comparisons between the damned on Earth and the damned in perdition, but the sight of Lucifer amidst the flames was a reminder of something more.

Castiel had known of Lucifer before he was thrown into the pit, but had never met him until after he emerged. Castiel knew Lucifer as the angel who had been condemned to Hell for eternity.

Castiel had fought through forty years of fear and disgust and every imaginable sin and torture to find Dean shattered and broken, permanently scarred by what he had been made to endure.

Where Dean had spent forty years in Hell, Lucifer had spent aeons.

"Where will you go now?" Castiel asked. He remained sitting as toxic fumes from the fire brought on dizziness and a headache he wasn't prepared to handle standing.

"The oceans," Lucifer replied. "I've always liked whales. I think I'll boost their numbers."

Castiel nodded, muscles aching from oxygen deprivation despite knowing full well this was just a dream Lucifer had borrowed and shaped in his own image, even if its events were being repeated in reality.

"What do you want, Lucifer?" Castiel asked, watching ash settle around them both, flakes of grey, black and white forming snowy peaks. "Forgiveness? Revenge?"

Lucifer walked over and sat down next to him, watching the town burn. Castiel wondered how many spirits would be put to rest by the fire, and noted the occasional flashes of light whenever one of the dead moved on. "Where do you suppose our Father is?"

"Raphael said He was dead," Castiel said. "Dean thought He was hiding, or didn't care. It doesn't matter anymore."

Lucifer smiled wryly. "You thought you were acting in His name. I loved him best, and He was meant to love these above all, but He hasn't breathed a word to any of us. Maybe Raphael was right."

"Or maybe He agrees with what you're doing."

"Why did He love them?"

"They don't give up. You didn't either."

The silence between them felt comfortable despite Castiel's comparison, and despite the dizziness, despite everything, he almost wished he could stay.

.

He woke feeling peculiarly well-rested, warm and settled in the nest he had created for himself, and regretted having to leave its confines, not least because he felt no hunger or thirst, or any other need demanding his waking. He flexed his toes, the cramp in them easing swiftly, forced himself to stand up, and climbed out of the bath to search for his shoes. Castiel felt the crunch and squash before he had a chance to look at the floor he stood on, winced with guilt as he lifted his foot, outright confused when he found the snail intact and still moving, slowly but surely, on its path through the bathroom.

He knew better than to believe in coincidence, bit his lip and forced himself to step on the snail again before willing it back to life and lifting his foot once more. The snail remained intact.

It was cruel to continue but there was always a possibility of third time unlucky, fourth time, picking up the snail and crushing it in his hands for the fifth.

He did not know why or how Lucifer was restoring his grace but the simple ability to heal again, even in so small a measure, was a gift he would not have turned down if Michael himself demanded it. He hadn't felt a true sense of self in years, and to have something undeniably angelic be his again was exhilarating.

Castiel smashed the bathroom mirror with his fist and picked the worst of the broken glass from his knuckles, wept and laughed as his skin pushed out any remaining slivers, scabbed over, and faded to nothing inside minutes.

Once that had been instantaneous but even if he knew better than to think of the restored ability as a reward, at least it was something _good_. He didn't know what purpose this served, but any purpose, however vague, was better than none.

.

Perhaps it had been foolish to expect so high a blessing, but it was still unpleasant to leave the house and stretch his wings only to find vertigo and nausea where his ability to fly ought to have been.

.

Lucifer never walked with him, but Castiel knew all the same that part of Lucifer's attention remained focused on him regardless of the distance between them. It was an invisible, silent presence at his back, distracting when he needed to change. Small mercies meant bacteria had never taken hold inside his body but his clothes still attracted dust and dirt, still demanded to be cleaned. Once he could clean with a thought, had been entirely sterile on the surface, but humans had found their own ways of maintaining hygiene and while soap was no substitute for purity, it had its own charm.

Less than a year ago the rivers and ponds were disease-ridden and filthy; Lucifer's cleansing of the world had left them suitable for life again, and Castiel couldn't help but feel there was something like a warped baptism in his washing by the side of still waters that ought to have been stagnant and covered in algae. He wanted to hate Lucifer for the invasion of privacy, and wondered if the uneasy acceptance of his presence was born simply out of loneliness; Lucifer had saved him for little more than being the only other angel on Earth, and Castiel knew full well his brothers and sisters were unlikely to return anytime soon.

Dean had taught him to make the most of a bad situation, but it was an uncomfortable comparison to make all things considered where Dean's struggles had led.

.

Walking felt easier and easier, and he knew without being told that it was another peculiar blessing Lucifer had given him, though the increasing difficulty of sleeping was less welcome. Sleep was less a need than an addiction, something that gave him a chance to think without the stresses of conscious thought, something that put his mind back into order as far as it would allow.

Even if sleep eluded him, habit demanded he make camp as best as he could, the light of the fire hypnotic if not quite soothing; his subconscious periodically flashed up Henry's vessel burning, ghost echoes of the stench unsettling his stomach. He wondered if the others were still awake in Chitaqua - if they still guarded what few survivors they had left as closely as they could.

The warmth and dark brought kinder memories to mind, memories of Dean learning to play the guitar so Chitaqua would not be wholly without music. It had been an acoustic guitar, of course, and Dean had somewhat resented receiving more requests for country music than for rock, but played nonetheless; many of those at the camp found the songs Dean wrote off as dull comforting in much the same way as Dean found Metallica and Black Sabbath comforting.

Castiel knew if he listened for angelic voices the only songs he might hear would be Lucifer's, songs known before God invented time, songs made to create emotions, not to remember them. It was tempting to see if Lucifer did still sing, but he knew better than to give into temptation; it would be better to try and listen in on Chitaqua, to see if anyone did remain awake on the watch.

.

The radio had fared well on its journey, though the dials had been knocked about a little. Castiel tuned back in easily enough, no response apparent at first until he caught something over the static. Breathing would have still been worrying, could just as easily mean a croat or demon, but snoring was a human state.

"Hey," Castiel said. "Hello? Wake up!"

Clattering and a snort followed by a tired, "Hello? Hi, who is it?"

Castiel smiled despite himself and bit his lip; Jenna's Louisiana twang was instantly recognisable. "It's Castiel. Is Chuck around?"

"Cas? Glad to hear someone back from the dead. Figured you not coming back here made you a goner. Chuck's asleep like any other sane person would be at three in the morning."

"Wake him."

"No way! The mood he's been in? Last thing I need's a pissed off Chuck on my back. Call back in the morning if you want to talk to him."

"Jenna, please -"

"No, Cas. Goodnight."

Kicking the radio wouldn't accomplish anything but Castiel was sorely tempted nonetheless, and forced himself to pack it away before the temptation rooted itself too deep. Sleep came uneasily; it didn't respond well to being forced.

.

It wasn't real. Not this dream; the sense of colour and placement was wrong, the world dizzying, disorienting.

He didn't trust its Lucifer any more than the real one. Trusted it less for wearing a face Castiel couldn't look at and identify - it could have been the face of his true form, or Dean's, or Anna's. Castiel kept looking, but couldn't see - it felt as if his mind _refused_ to let him see.

_You can't hide from me, you know._

_You can't stay away,_ Castiel replied, Lucifer approaching him, hives in the background fading in and out of focus, all of them silent.

Lucifer's left arm was covered to the elbow in honey, his fingertips dripping, sticky amber threads webbing and breaking apart.

_No._

_It's not a bribe._

Castiel fell to his knees and let Lucifer push two fingers into his mouth.

.

It had been years since he first had a wet dream, waking up confused and ashamed, cleaning himself off with a wave of his hand. He knew well enough what had happened, had watched millions over the centuries, however chaste, wake up slick between their thighs or across their stomachs. He knew logically that it carried no real meaning - just his too-human body demanding attention.

Logic and shame did not often work together, and Castiel could no longer clean himself with a thought, had to peel off jeans and briefs, thankful that the jeans were only damp because his briefs were soaked; the jeans could be worn again, at least.

Having to change out in the open did not leave him feeling quite as exposed as the dream itself had and he kept tensing, still shaken but worse still _aroused_ by what he had dreamt. Trying to reason with himself brought little comfort, his mind jumping to explanations of why attraction to Lucifer was reasonable instead of explaining the attraction away altogether.

He couldn't afford to let something illogical and impossible thrown up by his subconscious distract him, pulled on clean briefs and his jeans, no human scents on the wind; even if there had been, he doubted his state of dress would catch their attention over the oddity of someone out in the open who was alive and not possessed or infected.

.

Sleep had rarely felt less desirable and he was thankful for Lucifer's gift having left him feeling well rested despite the alarming dream, walking feeling easier rather than harder as the day wore on, determination overcoming embarrassment and allowing him to stand taller. Perhaps it was an illusion, but he could have sworn he walked _faster_ too, enough that he almost disregarded danger when its scent first became clear, stopped only because years of poor healing had demanded he pay more attention to threats.

Castiel could recognise that smell over any other number of distractions when its owner allowed their nature to come to the surface instead of hiding it. The scent was too strong for one alone, and he had his suspicions they were not all of the same circle; soot and flame and sulphur were the usual staples of any black-eyed demon, but there was something deeper still under the familiar stench.

"Where are you?" Castiel asked, knowing the answer but hoping his acknowledging their presence would throw them off guard. Two to his right, one to the left, an ambush meant for something less than an angel.

"Where're you going?" one of the creatures at the right said, his tone sneering.

"Stay if you like," cut across the second voice, its tone cultured and sibilant - the older scent, something from a deeper circle of Hell. "It's your funeral."

The older demon's scent overwhelmed for a moment before dissipating, a retreat, and Castiel wondered what had changed in his nature that he _regretted_ not getting to face it.

The remaining demon at the right seemed to take his companion's leaving as a challenge rather than a warning, and Castiel wondered if it didn't realise what it was, if it was stupid enough not to _care_, or if, perhaps, it was as suicidal as the older souls in Hell that had yet to turn demonic.

Blocking the demon's first wild lunge was easy, the demon to his left a distraction and concern as he ducked and punched his current attacker in the stomach, knocked it flying. He couldn't figure out the second demon's intentions, whether it was looking for an opening or if it was simply weighing him up - if it had half the intelligence the eldest demon had possessed.

He knew Lucifer's boosting of his other powers ought to have suggested an improvement in his overall strength but it was still alarming to feel the demon's vessel break on his second punch, feel its skull split, the demon staggering, dizzy. "The Hell?" it said, falling to one knee before trying to stand again.

Castiel closed his left hand around the demon's jaw, struck as hard as he could with the other, the split in the skull shattering into bone and gore under his fist, black smoke eking out and falling to the floor, nowhere else for it to go.

"Fuck this," the last cursed before running, and Castiel acted before he had the chance to process what he was doing, let his true form free long enough to blind the escapee.

Perhaps it was cruel to smile when the demon fell, cruel to place one hand on its forehead and the other over its mouth while straddling its chest. He hoped it was.

"You can go home now, or burn. It's your choice."

He watched it attempt to respond, unable to talk around his hand, unable to escape back to Hell, black smoke feebly trying to push its way through the gaps between his fingers.

"Wise decision," he said, and burned it from existence.

.

Disposing of the demons had been easy work, but to find so many this close to Chitaqua was disturbing; Castiel dropped his bags and pulled out the radio, found Chitaqua's frequency empty of all but static, with no response even to his shouting out.

Feeling anxious about the radio silence served no purpose and Castiel called out to the one person who could see into Chitaqua without having to physically be there.

Lucifer sniffed the air, frowned at the smell before looking down at the two corpses. "You had an easier time with these two, I assume."

Castiel felt sick with worry, with anger that he might have been fooled again. "Did you lie to me?"

Lucifer's expression was almost neutral, showed only a little confusion. "About what?"

"Chitaqua. You said you wouldn't kill them. We agreed you would -"

"I agreed nothing," Lucifer interrupted. "I haven't killed its inhabitants, but don't lecture me on broken promises when I made none."

"Then why aren't they answering the radio? If you didn't kill them, what happened?"

"I am not yours to question," Lucifer said, still serene on the surface, and Castiel could have torn his throat out for it.

"You spared me!" Castiel spat in return. "You're terrified of being alone, fine, but if you want more than just having another angel around then tell me _what the Hell is going on!_" Lucifer raised his fingers and Castiel bristled, yelled, "Do it!"

"You have no idea, do you?" Lucifer snapped back, clicking his fingers; Castiel braced himself but felt no pain. "If you want your answers, go ahead," Lucifer said, and left.

Castiel almost screamed before realising what Lucifer had done, his shoulders flexing with more than the weight of his wings, a lift present there he hadn't felt in a long, long time.

His first flight in four years should have been something special, something beautiful, but the question of Chitaqua demanded attention over anything else.

He landed too fast and too hard, set his leg back in place nearly the instant it broke and waited the few seconds for it to heal, wanting, _needing_ to know what had happened.

Chitaqua was untouched, not a single sign of damage anywhere to be found.

It was also empty.

.

Castiel knew better than to listen to Lucifer's claims but even if he _had_ killed the inhabitants it begged the question of why the buildings still stood, why there were no bodies - buried or otherwise - and why there were no indications of a struggle.

Locks were meaningless with his new strength and each room was as it ought to have been. Risa's, Dean's, the others who didn't make it back, theirs had been emptied or taken over by inhabitants with a different taste in decor - no sense in letting a dead person's belongings go to waste - while the others were personalised and messy with life, not battle.

He opened Chuck's room and swallowed down bile.

.

The typewriter was a twisted heap of overheated metal, warped and melted into something unrecognisable, the chair burned to a skeleton, as if Chuck had set alight everything in his immediate presence on leaving.

Castiel knew holy fire.

Papers still covered the floor, some charred, some stained, all covered in typed or handwritten notes.

Castiel sat down and gathered them into his lap, read through the papers with manic intensity. Chuck had claimed to stop having the visions. He had claimed he no longer wrote.

_In the end, I guess the Word is just that. Words. He could only guide us so far._

_He gave us a chance. Two, really. We reaped our own rewards._

_He gave this Earth to His sons and daughters. We blew it. He doesn't care._

_God pressed the reset button. He forgives everything. We can go home._

Castiel's hands shook, the same last words on every surface, every note, scrawled in a fever little different to that he felt on reading them.

_He forgives everything._

_He forgives everything._

_We can go home._

He'd begged on his knees for help. He'd screamed his anger and misery into the sky. No one had answered.

They had all waited for Dean to give up. When Dean fought to the end, they had waited for Castiel to follow suit. They wanted him to leave the Earth to rot, a final offering of amnesty.

Castiel knew what he had to do.

.

It was no real surprise to find Lucifer outside, prodding at the blackened contents of a pan that had been left to burn. "Cloven hooves," Lucifer said, grimacing, before looking up at Castiel, his expression becoming something guarded.

"You should try bacon," Castiel replied, closing the distance between them and taking the pan out of Lucifer's hands, emptying it out. He needed time; time to process what he now knew; time he didn't have.

"Did you find your answers?"

"They knew you would win," Castiel set the pan back in place and looked at the soot left on his hands. "They didn't leave Earth, they abandoned it."

Lucifer smiled. "Good."

"They want me to join them," Castiel said. "I won't. I choose you."

His admission wiped the smile off Lucifer's face, rendered him wary again in an instant. "Why?"

Castiel concentrated on the soot coating his fingers, closed his eyes for a moment, felt it disappear even before he looked to make sure his senses weren't fooling him. "This is your work, isn't it?" Lucifer nodded, and Castiel rested his clean fingers against Lucifer's shoulder, the touch feeling heavier than it ought to. "I'm tired of being cheated. I won't go back."

Lucifer sneered. "You're being allowed back into _Heaven_. Do you think they'll leave the doors open if you stay here?"

"No," Castiel replied. "And I don't care."

"Liar," Lucifer said, and Castiel thought back to his last experiences in Heaven - back to his reward for attending to Dean's needs, to his own, more than theirs.

"I'm not leaving," Castiel repeated, and recognised the look on Lucifer's face in an instant. He'd never forgotten it.

_You don't think you deserve to be saved._

He would not make the same mistake twice.

Castiel shifted his hand from Lucifer's shoulder to his cheek, waited for a flinch, for Lucifer to pull away, and when he didn't he fisted his hands in Lucifer's hair and brought their lips together, and felt confused resistance. "I'm not leaving," he repeated, and Lucifer kissed him back, the taste of grace that powerful so close to the surface like licking too-hot metal, and the screaming, the fury and anger and misery built up inside him choked on the perfection of it.

He pulled away and took Risa's diary out of his pocket, thumbed through the pages and smirked at the insignia of the publisher printed on the binding. An apple.

He set the diary alight and threw it in with Chuck's papers, tired of words.

"I didn't ask for forgiveness," Lucifer said, watching him with suspicion and something like awe.

"You didn't have to. I'm not Him," Castiel said, walking away from the cabin and spreading his wings.

"Where are you going?"

Castiel shook his head, itching to fly, not caring where he flew to. Earth was hardly shy of places to visit, and Lucifer knew how to contact him. "I'm not sure," he replied, picturing the possibilities. "Wherever I wish."

.

The poetry of their meeting up again in Israel did not go without notice, weeks of separation allowing room to breathe, room to think. Castiel caught Lucifer before he could lay waste to the village they were in and he was thankful for it, not for the sake of preventing destruction but for the sake of a clean bed indoors, out of the worst of the heat. Lucifer paid little attention to temperature, but plenty to skin.

Castiel knew Lucifer's nature would never permit self-doubt, never permit apologies for his actions, but it didn't matter. The arrogance was honest, and something so unchanging was easier to understand; when Lucifer held himself on shaking arms over Castiel, his first orgasm premature and his second exhausting, kissed him and said "I've never" and "Thank you", it was a sweeter reward than Heaven had ever offered.

Being an angel had meant loving all creatures equally, a sterile, neutral love with no emotion behind it, no attachment or possession. Being human, with Dean, had meant becoming something obsessive and clinging and broken.

He did not know what life with Lucifer would mean.

He did know he wished to find out.

.

The End


End file.
